Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  Henrietta was tempted to try the car door, but she knew she shouldn’t touch anything and risk contaminating forensic evidence. Even as she’d lunged toward the car, she’d been careful about corrupting any footprints, although she hadn’t seen any in the mud and grass.

  She spotted car-hire papers on the passenger seat.

  Why hide a hired car here? Why hide it at all? Why even come here?

  Interesting questions, but not her problem. Her problem was her rose trellis, her work, her tea. At most she could be supportive of her friends—Cassie, Eugene, Nigel, Ruthie, Tony, Martin. And Oliver, of course. He was home. Safe.

  Three fat crows descended to the center of the field, cawing, flapping their black wings. Henrietta shuddered, but she refused to see them as an omen just because she’d spotted them when she’d thought about Oliver.

  “We need to get the police here,” Emma said.

  Henrietta nodded. “Yes, of course. They’re already on the way.” She quickly explained additional details about Cassie’s discovery. “First Davy Driscoll’s possessions. Now Davy Driscoll’s car. The bastard bedded down within spitting distance of me. If it’d been a warm night, I might have cracked a window and heard him snoring. Well, Tony was right there in the cottage and didn’t hear anything, but he’s a bit hard of hearing, I think.”

  “It’s possible Driscoll didn’t actually sleep there,” Emma said.

  Colin pointed to the back seat of the car. “Here. Take a look.”

  Henrietta did so. She caught a glimpse of an amateurish but delightful painting of Edinburgh Castle. It reminded her of the painting of Queen’s View Cassie had discovered in the cottage. Henrietta didn’t see a signature. There were more canvases underneath it and one on the floor—another scene of Scotland, the Glenfinnan Viaduct of Harry Potter fame.

  She turned to Emma and Colin. “Cassie found a Scotland painting in the cottage. These paintings must be by the same artist. How did Davy Driscoll end up with them? What interest could he possibly have in amateur paintings of Scotland? He and Norcross took Oliver to the southern Highlands. Maybe he was obsessed with Scotland. Obviously this is his car. It’s a quiet spot, but he could pop right out to the road and be in Stow-on-the-Wold, Chipping Norton or Oxford in no time.” She tore her gaze from the back seat and turned to the FBI agents with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I know better than to stand here and waste time speculating.”

  “Brainstorming can sometimes help,” Emma said.

  “It has its place, but my only brainstorming these days involves gardens. The police can do their jobs. Oliver’s home safe and sound. I can go make tea and deal with the rose-trellis debris.”

  She had a sudden urge to walk over to the York farm and see Oliver for herself, but he’d be busy with the police. They’d want him to look at the paintings. Henrietta ignored the rush of emotion she felt. She had to be seriously, irreparably bored, or in a troubled state of arrested MI5 withdrawal. She couldn’t possibly be falling for an unrepentant art thief, an expert in folklore, legends and mythology—who cared?—and a black belt in this-and-that martial-art discipline. His karate and tai-chi expertise interested her more than his knowledge of ancient gods and goddesses and sacrificial rituals. She found herself picturing Oliver doing katas, sweating as he jumped, leaped, kicked and poked. It was a sexy series of images, but she shoved them aside.

  Emma was eyeing her as if she understood such emotional turmoil. Being married to Colin Donovan, Henrietta thought, perhaps she did.

  She heard a rustling in the trees, but it wasn’t a rabbit this time. Two uniformed police officers were making their way across the stream. She’d answer their questions but Emma and Colin could do most of the talking. Then...back to her garden. She needed to stand down and let the professional investigators do their jobs.

  16

  Emma sat on the stone bench opposite the spot where Davy Driscoll had died. Someone had placed a dark blue tarp over the blood stains. It was held down by stones, but otherwise the scene had been cleared. The police had collected Oliver to take a look at the findings at the Kershaw farm. Emma had returned with him a few minutes ago. Colin was still with DI Lowe at Davy Driscoll’s rental car.

  “I told the police everything about my Irish overnight, right down to the color of the Atlantic at dawn.” Oliver sat next to Emma with a groan of obvious fatigue and frustration. “I couldn’t help with the paintings in Driscoll’s car. I’d never seen them before. They must be a Balfour or Kershaw thing.” He folded his hands on his lap. “You’re the art-crimes expert, Emma. Why would a killer and kidnapper be interested in unsigned amateur paintings of Scotland?”

  “Best we avoid speculating,” she said.

  “As the police reminded me and your husband, this isn’t your investigation. As if it needs repeating.”

  Emma smiled. “I don’t mind.”

  Martin Hambly came out of the house. Oliver jumped to his feet and joined him. Emma remained on the bench while Oliver and Martin stood next to the tarp. Now that the detectives had finished interviewing him and he’d avoided arrest, Oliver would understandably want to take his longtime personal assistant and lifelong friend through the moment-by-moment events of the past twenty-four hours, and to hear Martin’s story. It could help them both—not just emotionally but it could prod more details from their memories as they processed the trauma they’d experienced.

  Alfred had trotted out the open door and stood next to Oliver, who occasionally reached down and patted the puppy, a gesture that seemed to reassure both of them. Oliver and Martin both obviously loved the energetic terrier. Alfred greeted Emma by jumping on her, earning himself a quiet but firm rebuke from Martin.

  “Martin spoils him,” Oliver said, crossing the driveway to her. “Of course, he denies it.”

  “He’s your dog,” Martin said, then went inside.

  Oliver sighed. “Yesterday was rough on him. This place has been his sanctuary. That it’s now experienced bloodshed...” He sank onto the bench next to Emma. “We’ll have to do some sort of cleansing ritual.”

  “You must know some interesting ones.”

  “I’ll go for one that involves flowers and pretty stones rather than some others. I feel terrible that I left him and Henrietta to find the body. At least Ruthie warned them and they knew there was an emergency that likely involved a fatality and a great deal of blood.”

  “Have you spoken with Ruthie?”

  “Not yet. Martin’s hoping she’s angry enough to quit.”

  It was an attempt at humor, one of Oliver’s ways of coping. “Yesterday wasn’t easy on anyone,” Emma said.

  “I suppose not.” Alfred abandoned Emma and nuzzled Oliver’s leg. He leaned down and scratched the puppy absently. “Ruthie should have called 999 on her way to the dovecote and Martin and Henrietta should have waited there with her. I left only after I knew Driscoll was dead. I recognized him straight off. I didn’t know his adopted identity until I checked his wallet when I arrived in Stow-on-the-Wold.”

  “You had the presence of mind to take his wallet and phone.”

  “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I had absolutely no doubt who he was. After all these years, having seen him only for a short time as a boy...” Oliver waited as Alfred flopped onto the pavement in front of him. “Police say he started living as Reed Warren in the first days after I escaped. It’s a new identity, not one he stole from someone else. He wasn’t that sophisticated. He must have had help.”

  “Norcross?”

  “He wasn’t that sophisticated, either. New identities explain how they disappeared into thin air. I wonder if they had aliases ready and waiting for them when they entered our London home.” Oliver paused, rubbing his toe on Alfred’s soft abdomen. “Maybe the break-in wasn’t as spontaneous and opportunistic as we’ve always thought.”

  E
mma saw that he’d raised his gaze from the puppy and was staring at the tarp. “Did Driscoll say anything to you before he died, Oliver?”

  “He was in bad shape. Bleeding out. I don’t know that anything he said would have made sense or been coherent.”

  “But you told the detectives anything he did say, no matter how garbled or incoherent,” Emma said.

  Oliver didn’t answer at once.

  “Oliver, you need to tell them.”

  He kept his gaze on the tarp but his eyes narrowed, as if he were concentrating, perhaps reliving the last moments of Davy Driscoll’s life. “I asked him who did this to him. He mentioned my mother. He said, ‘I did,’ and her name. I asked him if anyone else was in danger, and he said, ‘Scotland. The Sharpes...careful... I live in the ruin.’ That was it. Then he fell unconscious and died in my arms.”

  Emma stretched her legs out straight in front of her. “Did any of what he said mean anything to you?”

  “He called my mother by her first name, as if she’d been a friend. Scotland was where he and Norcross took me. He must have mentioned the Sharpes because he’d broken into Wendell’s house in Dublin. He was fading quickly by then.”

  “And the ruin?”

  “I assume he meant he couldn’t escape the reality of what he’d done thirty years ago.”

  The tarp stirred in a breeze, pushing slightly against the rocks that held it in place. “Why did you go to Declan’s Cross?”

  He turned to her with a small smile. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “It’s a place of comfort for you.”

  “Well, not last night. It wasn’t as cold as in November, but the rain was bloody desperate. Terrible. The skies opened up on me. It felt personal, as if God had decided to punish me for leaving poor Martin and Henrietta to find Driscoll and worry about me. Then your grandfather showed up with terrible coffee and a scone that could break a window. More divine punishment.”

  “Granddad’s never been a fussy eater,” Emma said.

  “He must know the difference between an edible scone and an inedible one. It was decent of him to bring me breakfast. I thought he might be able to help me figure out Driscoll’s dying words, that there was something...” Oliver groaned and looked up at the stunning blue sky. “The clear weather is supposed to last through the weekend. We had gorgeous weather for days, then we get one night of fierce rain and now more beautiful weather, and guess which night I end up sleeping rough?”

  “And all for naught? Granddad couldn’t help you?”

  “Not all for naught, but Wendell was unusually unhelpful.”

  “Did you know about the missing chisel, Oliver?”

  He shook his head. “No. I didn’t take the chisel and I didn’t use it on Driscoll. He was already cut and spurting blood when I came out of the house and saw him. I assumed he was a farm worker who’d had an accident, but then I saw those eyes—and I knew who he was. I don’t know if he was murdered or he staged an elaborate suicide, but he’s gone to God now, as our friend Finian Bracken would say.” Oliver patted Emma’s knee. “But enough blood and death. Come. Let’s find your charming husband.”

  * * *

  Henrietta would never in a thousand years have expected to see Jeremy Pearson in her Cotswold kitchen, but here he was. “Is all the furniture here from your aunt?” he asked with a grimace.

  “Not all. I brought some from London.”

  “The chair I’m sitting on?”

  “That was Aunt Posey’s favorite chair.”

  “Figures. It has an old-lady feel to it. I swear her skinny arse is imprinted on the seat.”

  She bit back a smile. “I got rid of all the cabbage-rose chintz.”

  “My gran loved chintz.” Jeremy settled his steely eyes on her. “If anyone asks, you decided to keep our appointment to discuss the gardens at my Cotswold country home. I spent the morning walking. Love it here.”

  That was his cover story, then, was it? Henrietta doubted Jeremy knew a geranium from a begonia—or cared—and she knew for a fact that he didn’t have a country home. He had a flat in London with his wife and dog. Exercise for him was a job, not recreation.

  He raked both hands through his hair and groaned, signaling an end to any friendly banter. “What a cock-up this situation with Oliver York is, Henrietta. Why did Davy Driscoll have to turn up now?”

  “Because Oliver’s not a recluse anymore. That’s the short answer.” She sat across from Jeremy. Usually he had an unruffled, quiet way about him that somehow made him seem more dangerous. The man was one rough customer, in part because he rarely got riled. “I have a headache. I think it’s the damp. It got into the rose trellis. Some days I swear I should move to Portugal. Stress doesn’t help. I’m out of practice.”

  “You’re dealing with family, friends and neighbors this time, not strangers. How much did you drink last night?”

  “Not as much as your friend Colin Donovan thinks I did.”

  Jeremy sat back in his chair. “I suppose I don’t blame you for that. You’ve always had a competitive streak, but it probably doesn’t hurt to have him think you’re more out of control than you are. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve had a rotten couple of days. I’m not out of control.” She felt a wave of irritation. “What difference does it make to you if I am out of control? I’m not your problem.”

  “You will always be a Security Service interest, Henrietta. There’s no getting away from that given your years with the service.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To remind me the tethers are still tight on me?”

  “Could Oliver have snatched the chisel and used it to kill Davy Driscoll?”

  “He never went inside his studio. Even if he slipped in before Martin and I arrived, why would he go to such trouble? He’d have had to know Driscoll was on the property. There must be other sharp implements he could have used at the house.”

  “Now we have Driscoll’s car.”

  “He was right there through the garden.”

  Jeremy leaned forward, placing both hands on the pine-wood table. “What’s going on, Henrietta? How bad is this going to get?”

  “You’re worried I’m going to screw things up for MI5’s work with Oliver.”

  “Having a disheveled wannabe garden-designer intelligence officer recommend him was complicated enough.”

  She smiled. “Wasn’t it, though? Are you going back to London tonight?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m staying in a B and B down the road. I wanted to see you first.” He glanced around the kitchen, sunlight brightening its flaws as well as its virtues. “Are you okay here on your own?”

  “Absolutely. No worries. I don’t have stone-cutting chisels but I can manage.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.” Jeremy got to his feet. “We need Oliver.”

  “More blood antiquities?”

  He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Henrietta resisted pressing him for details, but she admitted to mad curiosity. “That’s not my problem, is it, Jeremy?”

  He steadied his gaze on her. After a stint with the SAS, Jeremy had worked with MI6 for a decade. They could have him back as far as she was concerned. Now, however, wasn’t the time to get cheeky.

  He said goodbye and left the kitchen.

  “Well, that was subtle,” Henrietta muttered, hurling herself to her feet.

  Jeremy Pearson had just made Oliver her problem.

  She followed Jeremy to the front door and waited until it shut behind him. She peeked out the window. She didn’t know if he’d come alone or if he had a colleague waiting for him, but he remained on foot, disappearing down the lane.

  He might have told her his plans if she’d asked, and he might not have. Their conversation, she knew, had been
entirely within his control. It wouldn’t have made any difference if she’d been at the top of her game as an intelligence officer. Jeremy Pearson was the best, a dedicated officer with MI6 and now MI5. At her most confident—at her very best—Henrietta had never thought she could be in his league.

  Annoyingly, he’d been right about her from the start.

  I don’t give a damn you’re Freddy Balfour’s granddaughter.

  I never said you should.

  You didn’t have to. You have an air of entitlement about you, Henrietta, and if it doesn’t get you killed, it’ll get someone else killed.

  That friendly chat had been ten years ago. Jeremy had been with MI6 then. She’d been an underling on a joint operation, and he’d vowed to make sure she stayed an underling. He’d softened toward her somewhat in the ensuing years, but her only regret in quitting the service that winter had been the satisfaction it had given him. She’d been a damn fine intelligence officer but she’d never been as good as Jeremy Pearson had thought she could be—or as good as she’d hoped to be.

  Or so he liked her to believe.

  * * *

  “Who was that with you just now?” Cassie asked as she came through the back gate.

  “A prospective client,” Henrietta said. She’d come straight out to the garden after Jeremy had left and had looked for something to do, settling on staking the delphinium. “I need to get on with my work, but it isn’t easy.”

  “I know. Nothing’s easy right now.”

  Henrietta frowned at her friend. “You look dispirited. We can’t let all this get to our core, Cassie. It’ll eat us alive.”

  “Eugene’s having a difficult time with the idea this man was on our property. He... We both feel so vulnerable.” She sniffled, looking back across the gate toward her house. “Sometimes I wonder if I fell for Eugene because of this place. Freddy Balfour’s Cotswold farm. My dad loved to tell us about our connection to him.”